The Twisted Prince
by WeeTubaGirl
Summary: Sherlock doesn't believe in fairytales, but when he and John are dragged into a case based on the Grimm brother's stories, his lapse of knowledge almost costs him his life...
1. Chapter 1

John sat with his hands curled around a newspaper and his foot tapping the floor in an erratic rhythm. He changed his position, wiggled his fingers and nudged the empty mug on the floor with his toe. He focused hard on the words, but they swam beneath him, vanishing into a sea of faded black and white. John's foot twitched and with a large, angry sigh, he raised his head and bellowed, "Sherlock! Will you shut up for just one minute?!"

The melancholic violin that had been distracting him stopped and John relaxed. Finally, some peace and quiet. Sherlock had been playing that damn thing since three in the morning, and quite frankly, it was beginning to piss him off. I mean, at first the soothing tones and sliding glissandos were peaceful and calming, but after over eight hours of sad, depressing music, he was close to grabbing the gun hidden in the sock drawer. All he wanted was silence, blissful silence, one in which he could enjoy a nice cup of tea and the morning paper. Maybe some toast, or a few minutes on his blog. That would be nice.

"Did you not like my playing?"

John's shoulders slumped and he lowered the newspaper. Sherlock, his thin, elegant frame clothed in a blue shirt and some loose sweatpants, was pacing back and forth across the room. John wondered when he had entered. He had gotten so good at being silent that John barely knew where he was anymore - one second he would be sitting in the kitchen, concentrating on the analysis of some chocolate cake and then he'd be leaning over your shoulder, commenting on a freckle he hadn't noticed before.

"Well?" He turned to look at John. His hair, usually so well-kept and shiny, was now lank and messy. His hands were knotting themselves, playing with an imaginary cat's cradle, and he was staring ferociously. "Well?"

"I love your playing, Sherlock. You know that."

"So why did I have to shut up?" He started pacing again, his hands cocked under his chin in that odd praying mantis position. "I need to do something, John. So bored. So very, very bored...composing helps. Why can't I compose?"

John searched his brain for an excuse he hadn't already used. "Because you'll give yourself arthritis if you keep playing." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John cut him off with a raise of the eyebrows, and that old chestnut, "I'm a doctor, Sherlock. Listen to me. You've been awake for two days - don't you think it's time to take a rest?"

Sherlock scowled and moved over to the couch. With an almost feline grace, he sat down and curled up into a ball, his knees hitting his chin and his back arched like a bow. "What do I do instead then? I can't shoot the wall anymore, and now I can't compose." His eyes roved the room, catching on the newspaper now crumpled in John's lap. "Any cases? Murders? Suicides? Bank robberies?"

John glanced down at the paper and couldn't help but feel a little bit of pity. He had read the newspaper cover to cover and there was nothing suspicious to report. For the third week running, there were no murders, no suicides, no bank robberies - just the city, the battlefield, chugging along as usual. And Sherlock had sounded so hopeful. With a sigh, John shook his head. "Sorry. Nothing. Do you want me to make you a cuppa?"

Sherlock crumpled into himself and closed his eyes. "No. Tell me when something interesting happens."

Letting out another long, tired sigh, John stood up and ambled towards the kitchen. Trying to continue the conversation would be pointless - when Sherlock curled up and closed his eyes, you would do better talking to a corpse. Instead, John flicked the kettle on and glanced at his watch. 11:00am and he was already on his ninth cup of tea. Great.

_Knock. Knock._

John looked up and furrowing his brow, walked to the door. Sherlock was still lying on the couch, his pale face the picture of death. John watched him for moment, trying to see if he would speak or open his eyes, and then, when nothing happened, he curled his hand round the shining door knob and opened the door.

"Bloody freezing out there."

John stepped backwards as a man with silvery grey hair and thick black scarf strode into the room. He closed the door and crossing his arms across his jumper, said, "Lestrade? What are you doing here?"

"Don't worry. Not a drugs bust, or a search. We have a case." He started pulling off his coat and scarf and laid them on the edge of John's armchair. He looked around the room for a moment. "Where is he?"

John sighed and jerked his head in the direction of the couch. "He's curled up over there. Don't worry - he tends to blend in."

Lestrade looked at the couch and cocked his head. "Is he breathing?"

John nodded. "Yes. He's always like this when he doesn't have a case for over a week. He'll perk up in a moment, when he hears what you have to say. Go on."

Shooting a glance at Sherlock, Lestrade sat down in the wooden chair by the desk and leaned backwards. "A murder. In the woods. A fourteen year old girl was found earlier this morning by dogwalkers. It seemed pretty straight forward, but now..." Lestrade rubbed his forehead and looked at Sherlock. "Now, we need his help."

John nodded. Usually, Sherlock would perk up at this point, with a question, or a smart ass remark, but he was just...lying there, dead to the world. "What made it interesting? Why do you need him?"

"I can't really discuss it here..."

John shot Lestrade a glare and pointed at Sherlock. A second of confusion passed, but then Lestrade nodded. "She wasn't raped, or stabbed, or anything that usually happens to young girls of her age. She appears to have been poisoned but no one can identify where the poison came from or what the poison is. There are no footprints, nothing suggesting she had been dragged or carried. No fingerprints, no hair samples - she's clean. Completely clean."

"How fresh?"

Sherlock's voice, low and gruff and monotone, made John grin. Lestrade smiled back at him, the wrinkles around his face creasing. "Three days, more or less. It's hard to tell. Will you come?"

It was barely noticeable, but Sherlock's head twitched. Lestrade stood up and pulling on his jacket said, "Meet me there in an hour. Joydens Park - I take it you know where it is?"

"Yes."

"Fine. See you there." With a brief nod, Lestrade picked up his scarf and walked out the room, closing the door behind him.

It took a moment for Sherlock to react. "Brilliant!" he announced suddenly, springing up from the seat, full of energy and his eyes glowing. "Excellent! I love a good mystery murder, always something new, something different. A little duller than what I had in mind, but beggars can't be choosers. I'll get dressed, and you can pack my things - you know what I need? Of course you do. Thank you, John. Oh, Lestrade, I could kiss you!" With a bunny hop and beaming smile, he waltzed into his room, his arms still flailing and his eyes still sparkling. He was a reanimated corpse, once dead, now alive. John smiled at the thought, at the idea that only took a minute to bring someone back from the dead, to resurrect them and make them dance. If only life were so perfect. John turned around and gathered up some microscope slides, his fingers slipping over the test tubes and empty beakers. If only life were so simple.

In the background, the kettle whistled.


	2. Chapter 2

The wind outside burned John's cheeks and, not for the first time, he wished he had the foresight to bring a scarf. Sherlock and he were striding through the woods, following a GPS trail Lestrade had sent them. The trees around them, their branches skeletal and covered in a thin layer of frost, quivered and shook in the cold air, and the grass crunched under John's feet. Ahead of him, Sherlock ducked and pirouetted through the low hanging branches and sharp spears of thorns that fenced them in on either side. John, neither having the grace nor body shape to move so elegantly, felt yet another nettle prick him thigh, and yet another leaf tickle his nose. He sighed, and pushed the branch out of the way, hurrying to meet Sherlock.

"How much further?"

"Not far," Sherlock replied, not looking up from his phone. The collar was turned up on his trench and his cheekbones looked sharper and more defined than ever. "A few more metres, a left turn, then a right and then a clearing. A minute or so should suffice."

John nodded, even though he knew Sherlock wasn't watching him. His face was still pale and his clothes still seemed baggier than usual, but his eyes gleamed and sparkled in the morning light. He turned into a cluster of trees, and then into another and, suddenly, they were in a clearing that danced with light.

The first thing John thought of was a fairytale. The trees, though bare, danced with light, and the dewy grass sparkled. Red berries, speckled with water droplets, scattered the ground and hidden under a bush, a tiny blackbird pecked at a piece of dropped fruit. It was perfect, in the way only fairytales could be.

It took a moment for the magic to vanish, and for John to see the body lying on the grass in front of him.

A fence of crime tape surrounded it in a circle, hemming it in and protecting it from straying feet. It was a girl, obviously, with raven hair and pale, frosted skin. Her lips were blue, and her bare feet sparkled in the light, coated in ice. A long, blue dress was bunched around her knees. She was beautiful - the perfect princess for this fairytale wood. The thought made John sick, and vomit rose up his throat, a wave of hatred and disgust for this stupid, dangerous world he lived in.

A noise made John jump and he turned round in time to see Lestrade saunter up to Sherlock, his hands curled around a thermos cup of coffee. "Good to see you made it," he said, taking a sip. He seemed as unaffected by girl as Sherlock did and John couldn't help but widen his eyes and let his mouth drop open. Was he the only sane person here? Was he the only one who could see the girl in front of them? The dead girl, frozen solid and murdered? Was he the only one who cared?

"The ice was treacherous on the way up. Is Anderson here?" Sherlock glanced behind him and Lestrade shook his head.

"No - he took a week off, seeing as it was so close to Christmas."

John saw Sherlock visibly relax, his tense shoulders dropping and the tiny wrinkles around his eyes smoothing out. "Good. I cannot work with that cretin hanging around."

"I know, Sherlock, that's why he's not here. So, what do you think?"

Sherlock glanced at the girl on the ground, his sharp eyes flickering over her body. "I will need a few minutes alone with Doctor Watson, but it appears everything you've deduced so far is correct. Give yourself a cookie as a reward and come back here in a few minutes. Thank you, Lestrade."

Before Lestrade could say anything, Sherlock waved him away and motioned for John to come closer. John obeyed, silently cursing himself for doing so. He had been called Sherlock's lapdog so many times now, and he had vowed long ago not to obey his every command, but God damn it, it was so hard to. John was fascinated in cases and fascinated by his roommate's techniques, and so, everything motion, every word, every look, John obeyed, a slave to his own curiosity. It annoyed the bloody hell out of him.

"So, Doctor, what is your prognosis?"

John looked at the girl again. "Death by poisoning - there are no external marks, and nothing suggesting suicide. She's been preserved by the frost, so it's hard to tell how long she's been out here, but I'd hazard a guess at a few days, judging by insects in her hair." John pointed at a small brown beetle, one he had long ago identified with death.

"I agree with everything. Shall we take a closer look?"

Without a beat, John stepped over the line of crime tape and bent down beside the body. She looked more like a corpse at this level - it was easier to see the blood stopped in the veins, the set of her slack jaw, the frozen capillaries, snaking over her eyelids...

"Wait," John said as Sherlock knelt beside him, "her eyes are closed."

"You only just noticed?" Sherlock mused. "The person who killed her cared about her enough to close her eyes and make sure the dress was reasonable..."

"But it's hitched around her thighs, Sherlock. Barely what you'd call reasonable."

Sherlock shot him a withering look. "Animals. Don't' tell me you didn't see the squirrel prints on the silk? I thought you were observant, John."

John scowled and quickly looked away from Sherlock. Brilliant, yes, nice, no. His cutting tongue was made of snakes, and the worst part was, he didn't understand what he was doing wrong. It was that that killed John the most - the cluelessness, the tattered sheet that was Sherlock's social history and the fact that it would be the only knowledge he could never glean.

"No abrasions...hasn't been moved...although the thread..." Sherlock muttered, moving to the girl's feet, inspecting them. "No puncture wounds...ingested then..." Pulling a pen from his pocket, he lifted the girl's top lip and nodded, dropping the grey skin before John could see what he was examining. Sherlock stood up and furrowed his brow, his hands forced into his pockets and his head raised slightly. "No...not right..." He froze and his eyes caught on John's. "Red."

"What?"

"Red. Did you see any red fruit? Anything?"

Puzzled, John nodded. "Yes. A bush to your left."

A swivel to the right and a frown. "No, no, not right - Juniper berries. Not poisonous...anything else? Anything?"

"Eh, no, I don't think so." John suddenly remembered the blackbird, pecking away at something hidden in the undergrowth. He jabbed a finger at the spot and said, "There was a bird there, eating something. I didn't see what-"

"Good, good, great even." Hopping over the body, Sherlock crouched and peered under the bush. John watched him for a moment and caught a glimpse of a smile flourishing over his face. Within a second it was gone, replaced with a satisfied, smug look of contentment. He stood up, and apple in his hands.

"It's been two minutes, Sherlock, what do you have for me?" John swivelled on his heels, and then, mildly embarrassed, stood up straight and gave Lestrade a little nod. Ignoring him, Lestrade walked towards Sherlock and tapped him on the shoulder. "Sherlock, what do you have for me?"

"Girl was lured here by a man, possibly middle aged, perhaps younger and was tricked into eating an apple. A poisoned apple. She died almost instantly and the man dressed her in the gown, possibly to make her seem more beautiful or princess like, it doesn't matter. He wanted us to find her, or more specifically, wanted a skilled detective to work out the clues he had hidden. We have someone who's insane, pedantic and meticulous and if that's all you would like to know, I have somewhere else to go."

John could do nothing but stare. There were times when Sherlock was a pain, but then, with a flourish of his amazing brain, he would shock John into standing agape at his genius. "Amazing," he said, not even noticing Sherlock's sideways smile at him. His brain was in overdrive, racing like an engine in an attempt to catch up with his. "How did you-how...?"

"Observation. You see, but you do not observe, John - the distinction is clear."

"Sherlock, give me a straight answer now." Lestrade's voice made Sherlock's smile vanish and with a raise of the eyebrows he stepped forward and bent towards the body.

"She hadn't been dragged or carried as you had already pointed out, so she must have came here of her own free will. A girl like her - dyed black hair, the remnants of a tongue piercing, must have been lured here with drugs or money. She arrives and is tricked into eating an apple - there is red peel in her teeth. I thought it was a berry at first, but those berries aren't poisonous and it would be highly unlikely for the man to carry deadly berries around with him. So another, fruit then. John said a blackbird had been eating something over there, so I investigated. A red apple, with the smell of bitter almonds. Filled with enough cyanide to kill anyone. After she died, he wiped the spittle from her mouth - there are flecks of dried water on the ground beside her, despite the fact that it hasn't rained in over a week - and there is a thread, a purple thread from a jumper on her left sleeve, showing that she was wearing another pair of clothes previously. Discarding the evidence, he left, but not before carving a clue into the apple that had killed her."

Carefully, Sherlock moved the red apple round, showing John and Lestrade the shocking white flesh hidden underneath that crimson skin. "A single bite would have been enough to kill her, and if you look carefully, there are two words just above the bite. Can you read them? Can you?"

John squinted and slowly read out the words written on the apple: "Golden hair." He glanced at Sherlock and Lestrade. "What does it mean?"

Sherlock shrugged and threw the apple at Lestrade, who caught it and quickly sealed it in a plastic bag he had magicked from his pocket. "I have no idea, but I have the feeling this is not an isolated case. There'll be another murder, somewhere. Keep an eye out, Lestrade, and I'll be waiting if you need help. I have research to do." With a nod and a skip, Sherlock bounced under a branch and waltzed away, leaving John to shrug and run after him.


	3. Chapter 3

The journey back was a silent one, full of unspoken questions and unravelling threads. Sherlock's brow was knotted; his eyes closed every so often, the rounded 'o' of his mouth frozen in position as he thought. It wasn't until they were back in the flat that John dared to say anything.

"Sherlock?" he asked, sitting down in the armchair and leaning on his knees.

"Mmm?" Sherlock was darting back and forth between his room and the kitchen, carrying microscopes and titration pipettes and chemical analysers. He couldn't have been more different to the zombie who had lain on the couch only a few hours before. The paleness in his cheeks had vanished, and, his usual confidence restored, he filled his clothes, the buttons on his jacket now looking set to explode outwards from his chest.

"The clue on the apple - 'Golden hair' - do you think it could have anything to do with..." John trailed off, searching for a word that wouldn't make him sound, well, gay. "With children's stories?"

Sherlock didn't even turn around. "What do you mean?"

"Well...the girl in the woods today. She was beautiful - oh, don't give me that look, I'm only stating a fact - and she had black hair. She was killed by a poisoned apple in a wood. Doesn't that sound familiar to you?"

"No."

Sherlock moved a stack of books onto the table, the hard leather covers hitting the wood with a thud, unaware of John staring at him incredulously. He thought it had been obvious - had he finally caught something that Sherlock had missed?

"Are you sure?"

There was no reply, and John let out a small smile. "It's Snow White, Sherlock! Snow White! The killer has modelled the murder after a fairytale."

"Snow White?"

His voice was barely a murmur, but it was loud enough for John to hear. He raised his eyebrows. "Snow White? The girl, the mirror, the evil witch?"

"Never heard of it. Help me with these books, will you?"

John stood up and was handed a large pile of medical journals. Sherlock dashed away again, his hair bouncing on his head.

Great. The one time he thought he had caught something, the one time he was smarter than a genius, it turned out to be a small lapse in said genius's knowledge. It wasn't that he had missed something - it was that, in his mind, there was nothing to miss. John shuffled on his feet and waited for Sherlock to pop his head round the door, proclaiming, "Well, John, you're absolutely right, I am an idiot, how stupid of me." Nothing. Just the empty air and the murmur of wind outside.

Sherlock finally bounced back into the room and swept up the books in his arms. No thank you, but John wasn't expecting any. "Sherlock, have you seriously never heard of Snow White?"

"Never."

"What about Rapunzel? Beauty and the Beast?" John racked his head. "The Frog-Prince?"

"The Frog what?"

"Prince, Sherlock, Prince. How come you've never heard any fairytales?"

Sherlock shrugged and sat down in a chair, his materials finally gathered. He started fiddling with a slide and a sampling of hair he must have pinched from the crime scene. "I don't know. I was never interested in them, and besides what use could they be?"

"Sherlock, you are in the middle of a case that focuses directly on fairytales! How can they not be of importance?"

Sherlock suddenly whipped round, and John shrank backwards slightly. "You are making bricks without clay, John," he said, words like venom as they left his mouth. "There is no evidence, and you need data to make conclusions. You have no data, and your mind is filled with silly stories that no one bar a child could find possibly entertaining. An apple and a forest is not enough clay, John, and if you continue doing this, your lovingly built brick house will tumble down around you. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. Now, leave me to my work."

Sherlock turned his back again, and John found himself fighting the urge to punch him. Instead, he curled his hands into fists and took a deep breath. "Sherlock, there's another fairytale. About a girl called Rapunzel who was famous for her golden hair. We have a Snow White, and now we have a clue that directly links to another story. I don't care what you think. I'm checking it out."

No reply. Just a steely, cold silence. John stifled a shout and turned around to grab his laptop. Picking the lightweight rectangle in his hands, he marched through to his bedroom, his pulse throbbing in his ears and his face turning a dark plum colour.

No. Sherlock could be a dick, a horrible friend and an even worse roommate, but he was not going to throw away a perfectly reasonable lead just because he didn't know about it. John would do the research - he had worked with Sherlock long enough to know his methods - and he would force Sherlock to acknowledge it. Sherlock would not be allowed to do that to him. He wouldn't.

With an angry stab, John turned on his laptop and sat it on his lap. It whirred to life immediately, and John typed in the password and waited for the background to pop up, the background and that beautiful little button that took him to the internet. Sometimes John wished he could live there permanently - there were no arguments, no annoying dicks and no violins. Just funny cats and an endless stream of blogs that could distract him from the mess that was his life.

John clicked onto the internet and stared at the screen, suddenly aware of the fact he had nowhere to start. He knew the story of Rapunzel - one of his old patients had a little girl, and he was constantly video-taping himself reading the stories - and he knew that the killer would be looking to strike again. So, setting would be helpful. It would have to be a tower...a tall one, abandoned...where could you get one of those in London?

Hesitantly, John started typing: TOWERS IN LONDON: and clicked search. A stream of sites clogged the page, but they all seemed to about the Tower of London. Well, that was helpful. Closing his eyes, John thought for a moment. Towers, towers, towers...what type of towers where there? Radio towers. Clock towers. Factory towers. Eiffel tower. Phone towers.

John froze and looked down at the screen. His fingers ran over the keys and, with a flash of adrenaline, he pressed search. Another page of results, but this time, they were promising.

ABANDONED CONTROL TOWER BOUGHT BY MILLIONAIRE- THE TELEGRAPH

RADIO TOWERS - WIKIPEDIA

BAD WOLF T.V TOWER OUT OF USE - DAILY MAIL

HOW TECHNOLOGICAL TOWERS WORK - eHOW

John moved his mouse and clicked on the third one. The article was written over a year ago, but it looked right - an abandoned tower on the outskirts of London. There was a picture and, as John enlarged it, he was once again struck by the fairytale qualities. There were vines crawling up the circular building and the sun was glinting in the round glass window at the top. A light frost sparkled around the base and a fox, its orange fur brighter than the grey around it, sulked past. The tower was perfect. Perfect for a murder based on princess stories.

Scribbling the address down, John closed his laptop and walked out of the room, grabbing his coat from the arm of his chair. Sherlock glanced up, his face as flat and expressionless as concrete. "Where are you going?"

"Out. I have a lead."

Sherlock nodded and turned back to the microscope slide he was inspecting. "Go ahead. Phone me if you find anything interesting."

John didn't reply and shrugging on his jacket, walked out the door. His heart was thumping in his chest and his mind was racing. What if the murder being a fairytale was just a coincidence? Maybe his mind was just jumping to conclusions - making bricks without clay, as Sherlock so elegantly put it. What if he came out of this looking like a fool, an idiot? What if he was wrong?

What if he was right?

Pushing the thought from his mind, John strode down the stairs and out into the cold, cold air. Cars trundled up and down the street, their wheels gliding over the icy roads. John walked to the pavement and hailed a cab, jumping into it and letting the heat caress his skin. He glanced at the cabbie - he never had been able to fully trust them, not after what happened with the pink and the pills - and said, "Tyler Road, just outside London please."

"Right."

The taxi roared to life and settling back into the seat, John wondered what he would find.

An abandoned, empty tower?

Or a stream of golden hair?


	4. Chapter 4

John stepped across the frozen tarmac and stared at the thing ahead of him. The tower was exactly the same as it had been in the picture, except the vines snaked over the window now, and the glass was coated with a fine layer of dirt, cracked in the middle by a stone. It looked less like a castle tower up close, and more like a monster with teeth and claws and burning eyes that could see into your soul. It was a villain's lair, an ogre's keep. John eyed it for a second, forcing himself to stay calm. It was just a building. He had been in thousands of buildings.

A stiff wind caught John's cheek and pulling the jacket closer to his chest, he walked forward, his eyes narrowed against the cold. The door loomed in front of him, the mouth of the beast. John tapped the door handle and to his surprise, it swung open. Someone had been expecting him.

The thought bounced into head before he could stop it, and he had to bite down a tortured scream. He had seen so many things in his life - so many deaths and tragedies and crumpled bodies - but nothing could stop the terror rising up inside him. What if this whole thing was a trap? What if he was going to be killed? What if this? What if that?

John stepped forward into the dark tower and tried to control his breathing. This was a walk in the park compared to what he had done in Afghanistan. Why should he be worried? Another step and another and another, until he was standing at the wall. His hands searched it for a light switch. No luck. Cursing, he raked around his pockets. It was in here somewhere...there. His hand curved around a tiny key ring and he pulled it out, flicking the button as he did so. A thin beam of light shot out, illuminating the dust that danced in the air. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. Swivelling the light, he found the stairs and began to climb.

The light from the open door downstairs vanished as John walked and his heart beat faster, a bird fluttering against the bars of its cage. There was nowhere to run should someone jump out at him - a wall on one side and a dizzying drop on the other. Twice John had glanced down and seen a dead rat, its tail curled into its back and its teeth covered in dried blood. John thought of the fox in the picture and how sly he looked, how he seemed to be winking at the camera. A shudder raced up John's spine and with a gulp, he tightened his grip on the torch.

After an eternity, the beam of light from the key ring hit against something solid. A door. John walked towards it, his hand outstretched and his heart battering against his rib-cage. This was it. The moment of truth. Was he wrong? Or, even worse - was he right?

The door, just like the one downstairs, opened effortlessly, and John gingerly stepped into the room, wishing he had brought his gun. Pale sunlight streamed through the window, hitting the dusty floor at odd angles, reflecting off broken glass. John looked closer - it wasn't glass. It was a mirror.

John took another step into the room, an old leaf crinkling under his foot.

He swallowed a boulder and turned his head to the side.

No.

A girl with long blonde hair was propped up in a chair, draped in shadows. The sunlight didn't touch her, but John could still see her skin, paper thin and cracked, in the light of the torch. Her cheeks caved in and her nails were daggers, sharp and pointed. She was wearing a pink dress and a purple cardigan, but they drowned her, the swathes of fabric hanging off her limp frame. Her arms were twigs; her legs were sticks.

You didn't have to be a doctor to see she was dead.

You didn't have to be a detective to see she had been starved.

John turned away and vomited into the corner, bile sluicing over the concrete floor. His hands were shaking and his breath came in ragged gasps. He didn't know what he had been expecting - puppies? A box of cupcakes? - but just that single glance, that single image made him want to throw himself off the tower, onto the cold hard concrete below.

With trembling fingers, he wiped some vomit from his mouth and pulled his phone from his pocket. He pressed the buttons for the flat and waited for Sherlock's voice. Nothing. Just the endless beeping and finally, the automated voice of the answering machine. John swore and pushed his phone back into his pocket. He didn't have Lestrade's number, and there was no way he trusting the whole of Scotland Yard with this. No way.

John turned around and immediately stumbled backwards, his breath caught in his throat and his hands stinging from the fall. A long figure, tall and lonesome, stood in the doorway. There was something familiar about it. Something recognizable. John searched for a threat, or a warning, but only managed a strangled, "Shit."

"I thought you would have been pleased to see me, John." Sherlock's willowy frame emerged from the doorframe and John struggled to his feet.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, can you sneak up on me like that?"

"I didn't sneak up on you - I've been watching you for at least five minutes." Tilting his head, Sherlock regarded the skeleton in the corner. "Another victim."

"Yes, yes - how did you know I was here? Did you follow me here, or did you just use you bloody physic powers?" John swayed on his feet, still feeling lightheaded and queasy.

"Haha, hilarious, John. Firstly, I didn't know you were here. The killer is either intimately aware of my lack of knowledge, or he simply wanted to make sure I didn't miss the clue. There was another one, John, another clue. At first I didn't see it, but then, I did - sewn into a patch on the dress, the words Bad Wolf."

"You stole part of the dress? How did you even-"

"It doesn't matter. I came here as quickly as I could. And secondly; Internet history, John. You should really learn to delete it."

John opened his mouth to speak and then promptly shut it. What was the point? Sherlock's brain was so fast, so cutting, arguing with anything he said was practically a death wish. John gritted his teeth and wandered over to Sherlock, who was now investigating an interesting piece of floor. "Should we call Lestrade?"

"Yes, we will. No now. Can't have him destroying a crime scene. Nothing better than first-hand evidence, and I can't have him and his...cronies messing it up."

"Sherlock..."

With a sigh, Sherlock dug into his pocket and threw a phone at John. "Fine, call him. But be quick about it. We have work to do." He gave John a quick glance and then went back to examining the floor, his long fingers stroking the grey ground.

John watched him for a moment and, still feeling slightly sick, searched for Lestrade's number. It wasn't hard - Sherlock only had about four contacts. John. Mycroft. Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. Touching Lestrade's name, John waited for a voice.

"Hello, this is Greg Lestrade."

"Yes, hi, it's John. Watson. I'm at the Bad Wolf Tower, Tyler Road and well...you'd better come down and see for yourself."


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade came, turned pale and then left again to collect some people from the forensic department.

Sherlock investigated, slicing the dress and cutting hair and nails from the victim, occasionally muttering words to himself in a quick, hurried manner, like always.

John stood, face against the dirty glass, watching the world speed by outside. How odd it was that when one life, one perfect life, bursting with potential and passion and power, stopped, everyone else's continued. Surely there should be something. Someone should have noticed - a dad, wondering where his little girl has vanished too; a neighbour, knocking on the door of an empty flat, desperate for an answer; a friend, coming round with a Chinese, ready for a talk; a teacher, suddenly overcome with a sudden chill. How was it that no one noticed? How was it, that when Rapunzel took her last, shaking breath, she was forgotten?

Of course, John, knew the answer, but it didn't stop him from asking the questions.

After about an hour, John turned around and coughed. "Sherlock. We should go."

Sherlock, who was scraping a sample from under the chair, glanced up, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed. "Go? We've only just got here."

"Lestrade's coming back."

Sherlock straightened up and sauntered to the window. Immediately, his brow smoothed and he whipped round, catching John on the back of the leg with his jacket. "Right then, we should be off. Help me carry down the samples. I need to get part of the broken mirror too."

John picked up a few test-tubes from the floor and waited for Sherlock to finish selecting his chosen shard of glass. He picked one up, and weighing it in his hand, nodded. "Right, ok. Back to Baker Street?"

It was pointless replying - Sherlock had already began to walk to the door, gliding across the floor in his trench. John walked after him, but he couldn't move with the same vim and vigour as Sherlock. The questions, hornets in his head, kept coming back to him, stinging him and injecting poison.

Six months of vanishing, three months of death.

How did no one notice?

John followed Sherlock down the stairs, vaguely aware of Lestrade and his team walking up them. They had been pulling their equipment out when John was staring out the window, and now, they were ready for their investigations.

"Our favourite psychopath."

John stopped just in time to avoid colliding with Sherlock. Even this close up, John could see him bristling, his back tensing and his long nimble fingers moving to invisible music. "Donovan," he said calmly, hiding the obvious rage. "I thought you would have been away with Anderson."

Donovan laughed, her frizzy black hair bouncing off her shoulders. "No. I see you can't get rid of your puppy for a day though. How long has it been? Two months? You might as well get married."

"I'm, eh, not gay," John interjected, "not that anyone cares..."

His voice was drowned by Sherlock's. "It's not my relationships - platonic relationships - you should be worried about, Donovan. Isn't Anderson married? You really should not be sneaking out every weekend - his wife is beginning to notice your hair on his clothes. And your perfume. And the extra...wrappers he has lying around."

Donovan coloured, crimson flowers blossoming on her cheeks. "At least I'm not a virgin."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when Lestrade shouted from the bottom. "For God's sake you two, hurry up and stop behaving like school children, or I'll have to sit you on the naughty step."

John couldn't help it - the thought of Sherlock, knees tucked under his chin as he sat on a too small stool, dunces cap on his head, was too much to bear. He let out a small chuckle and Sherlock shot him a glare that could kill small mammals. "Come on, John," he said, pushing past Donovan and striding down the stone steps. John followed and caught a whisper in his ear.

"And he says he's not gay."

John ducked his head and hurried down the stairs and out the door, into the frigid air. It occurred to him that didn't know Donovan's first name, and then he made a decision to never learn it. She didn't deserve that kind of respect.

A cold wind whipped his face and he ran forward to meet Sherlock, who was climbing into a cab. John clambered in and sat beside him, leaning back into the chair. The door slammed shut and Sherlock said, "221B Baker Street, London. I'll give you an extra 10 if you can quick."

The cabbie nodded and with a juddering start, they were off, speeding through the streets. John closed his eyes. Two crimes scenes in a day. Two horrific murders in a day. Great.

"John?"

Peeling his eyelids apart, John glanced ay Sherlock. He was sitting with his hands under his chin, as usual, and his eyes were glowing in a way that could only mean he had an idea. "Yes?"

"Could I use you as a sounding board? I need to talk some things through."

"Yes, sure, go ahead."

"Thank you." Sherlock leaned back and took a deep breath, centring his thoughts. "Right, two murders. Both committed by the same person due to the continuation of a fairytale theme. One Snow White, the other...What was it?"

"Rapunzel."

"Yes, Rapunzel. Both brutally murdered - one poisoned, one starved, both in the way of their characters, more or less. However, there's a problem. Rapunzel had been dead for over three months, but only committed the Snow White murder a few days ago, wanting us to find the latter first. That means planning, time lining, plotting, which means a methodical killer, which means dangerous. There was a clue concealed in the Snow White, and I'm going to say that our next clue is hidden in Rapunzel." Sherlock looked at John, the sharp streets of the city reflected in his eyes. "Correct so far?"

John nodded. "I think so."

"So, our killer," Sherlock continued, arching his fingers. "Obviously insane-"

"Obviously?"

Shooting John yet another withering look, Sherlock said, "Well, John, he is murdering people using children's stories as his base. I think that is a pretty good indicator."

"Fair enough." John gestured forward with his hand. "Continue."

"He's mad, but what made him that way? Death of a child, I think. Children's stories, and those dresses, especially Rapunzel's. Did you check the label? Of course not, only I do that. Perhaps he mummified her to make it fit, but the dress is an age 10-11. A middle-aged man would not have that lying around his house, and it would be too conspicuous to buy one without a child there. Also, it was slightly worn. Therefore, he knew someone of that age, most likely a daughter. So a daughter obsessed with fairytales ends up dead and he goes insane, deciding to murder. There is a fine line between suicide and homicide, John. Very fine line.

"Ah, but I just said he was methodical, didn't I? A man racked with grief is not logical about things, and he doesn't plan murders months in advance. So, there are two killers, one planning, the other one doing. Which one is in control, we can only guess at. Now, though, we need investigate the evidence to find the next clue. I think it'll be on the mirror, in invisible ink perhaps."

"The mirror?" John looked at Sherlock. "Out of all the evidence in the tower, you choose the mirror?"

"Well, yes, John. Isn't it obvious?"

John winced inside. He hated that phrase - it made him feel like such an idiot. "No, it's not. Not to me anyway."

"Everything in that room had a purpose - the chair, the dress, the window. The mirror was simply...there. It had no place in that room. There was no dresser and the girl had no personal belongings with her, so it couldn't have been her. The mirror was left for a reason - for me to find it, just like the other clues."

Nodding, John turned his head and stared out the window, if only to hide his utter amazement. He had seen Sherlock's mind working so many times before, but the leaps, the bounds, the unfathomable, brilliant conclusions he came to always surprised him. John tried to concentrate on the speeding map of grey streets and blue sky. "Sounds plausible," he said at last.

"It does. Anyway, I need to pour over evidence, so forgive me if I tell you go away when we get home. I may have to visit Molly as well, borrow one of her mass-spectrometers."

"You mean the hospitals mass-spectrometers."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Same thing. Ah, here already?"

The taxi slowed to a stop and Sherlock checked his watch. "Perfect. A journey that should have taken twenty minutes took ten. You deserve the tip." Pulling some crisp notes from his pocket, Sherlock handed them to the driver and opened the door. "Carry some things, will you John?"

"It's not as though I have much choice," John muttered, half hoping Sherlock would hear. He didn't - but the cabbie did.

"When did you two meet?"

John blinked and glanced at the man, at his squat frame and rounded belly. "Eh, two months ago."

The man smiled. "I met my Phillip three years ago, and we're still working out kinks. You make a good couple, you just need to stick to it."

"I'm not gay."

The man nodded and rolled his fingers off the steering wheel. He was smiling - that stupid knowing smile people gave him all the time. It was 'you-keep-telling-yourself-that' smile, the 'I'll-take-your-word-for-it-but-you're-wrong' smile.

John scrabbled for the test tube and beakers and then slowly, carefully pulled the door open. "Bye," he said, hopping out into the freezing air. Sherlock was standing by the front door, pushing the key into the lock. The door clicked open and the pair stepped into the warmth and sanctuary that was 221B Baker Street. No dead bodies here. No starved girls, no poisoned apples, no cryptic clues. Just a skull, a violin and a battered old laptop.

And that was all they needed.


	6. Chapter 6

A week passed, dragging its feet like a grumpy teenager. John spent his time in his chair, reading or researching. He memorised all the fairytales, just in case, but the rest of the time was slow, almost agonisingly so. There was nothing to do, no one to see. Just the flat, and Sherlock, who was going slightly insane.

He slept the first night, but the other six days he was up, mumbling and stretching out on the sofa like a cat. He took naps -half hour bites of recharging - but that was it. Microscopes littered the table; the mirror had been examined this way and that; the hair had been screened for so many different toxins John doubted Sherlock had even remembered the names of them; the scrape of dirt on the floor had been burned, frozen, dissolved in acid, filtered and dripped into a horrible looking steel contraption. None of it was working, and it was tearing Sherlock apart.

"John," he said, exactly seven days from when Lestrade had wandered in, "I can't get this to work."

John glanced up from his paper and looked Sherlock in the eye. "I can't help you."

Sherlock let out an odd moaning noise and bent down, his chin tickling the arm of the chair. "You can, John. Please. Just take a look at what I have."

Sighing, John stood up and wandered to the kitchen table. It was drowning in paper and plastic bags, covered in pens and scribbling. John was slightly amused to see that Sherlock had resorted to writing on his own hands, black marks like tallies covering his skinny wrists. "Ok, what do want me to look at?"

"Everything."

John rolled his eyes. "Ok." He parted a pile of papers and stared at himself, the image fractured in the mirror shard. Picking it up, he weighed it, feeling its density. It had been coated in a fine blue material that was rubbing off in his hands. "Hmmm. Right." John grabbed a random bottle of green liquid from the table and dabbed some onto the mirror. Nothing happened...not that he was expecting anything to. "Well...that proves...something."

"It proves that water with pH indicator in it does nothing to glass, like every primary pupil knows."

John swallowed a retort and picked up another bottle. Behind him, Sherlock sniffed, and John could just tell he was raising his eyebrows and cocking his head in fake interest. John pretended he didn't care and unscrewing the cap, let a tiny drop of the fluorescent blue water fall onto the mirror. There was a sizzle as it reacted with the powder and then, words scrawled across the glass, jagged and painted in drooping lines.

John almost dropped the bottle on the floor and Sherlock simply stared at it, his face the picture of shock and surprise. Within moments, he was calm again, composed, and, tugging the mirror from John's hands, started to read aloud its message;

"Open the door, my princess dear,

Open the door to thy true love here..."

Sherlock glanced at John, who was still staring, open mouthed and incredulous at the magic that had just unfolded. "Well done, John. I think we may have found the next clue. Only an idiot would have thought to put potassium permanganate onto copper sulphate...the killer must know I have an accomplice...or his researcher of course..."

Sherlock continued rambling, spreading his thoughts into the air like paint on a canvas, but John wasn't listening. He didn't even register Sherlock's insult. Instead, he was thinking, his mind caught in a rush of ideas and questions and answers and references. Vaguely, he wondered if this was what Sherlock felt all the time - this stampede of processes and decisions and books and words. No wonder he went mad sometimes.

"...and, of course, this could mean anything, any fairytale...John? Any ideas?"

John blinked and hurtled back into the world of the living and the sane. "Eh," he said, glancing at the words again. He had the story on the tip of his tongue, just bursting to escape. "The...Fr-The Frog Prince! He - the frog, I mean- says it to the princess every time they meet."

Sherlock nodded and with careful, traced steps, he placed the mirror back on the table and walked to the sofa. He promptly lay upside down on it, his feet touching the wall and his mop of hair washing the floor. John had found this position in particular quite disturbing when he had first arrived, but now...well, it was just Sherlock's way of thinking.

"The Frog Prince..." he muttered, his eyes fluttering shut. "Is that the one that takes place in a pond?"

"Yes, but also a castle."

"Too many options. The clue isn't in the setting then, it must be in the story itself. Were any of the characters given names?"

"No," John replied. "I don't think so." He longed to have the laptop in front of him, instead of having to this by memory, but it was through in the other room, and he wasn't leaving, not when Sherlock was deducing.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Were there any key items in the story?"

John thought for a moment. "Well, the pond, the golden ball-"

Sherlock sat upright, his stomach muscles tightening through his shirt. His eyes snapped open and he stared fixedly at John, his round eyes sizzling with passion and curiosity. "Golden ball?"

"Eh, yes? At the start of the story, the princess drops a golden ball into the pond. That's how she meets the frog."

"Right...right..." Sherlock's eyes closed and he muttered for a few seconds, his hand waving in the air slightly as he thought. A miniature mind palace - one he could access quickly and with distractions in the background. In this case, it was most likely to be a map, judging by the way his hands were moving in straight lines. But what he was looking for, John didn't know. As far as he was aware, there wasn't a place called Golden Ball in London.

After about half an hour, Sherlock's eyes opened and he quickly stood up and grabbed his coat. He yanked it on, winding his scarf around his neck at the same time. John started forward. "What? Where are you going?"

"Where are _we_ going, John. Plural. I know where the next victim is." He tugged the scarf until it was tight around his neck and then grabbed his phone from the table. Pressing a few buttons, he glanced at John. "Well, come on."

John jumped into action and grabbed his coat, shrugging it on effortlessly. The last few days had been warmer, but not warm enough to walk around without a jacket. Not for the first time in his life, John wondered what it was like to live in America and not have your life dominated by the weather.

Sherlock swung the door open, his eyes still glued to his phone. John hurried out of it and started to walk down the stairs. Sherlock joined him and as they marched out into the hall, Sherlock held up his hand and thrust his phone into John's face. "YANA Inc Warehouse, in the industrial estate. It stored Christmas decorations, mainly golden baubles."

"Ok. Well, are we going?"

"Yes. Don't bother getting a cab, it's a few minutes' walk."

Nodding, John opened the door and walked onto the icy pavement. Immediately, he turned left - two months of living with a walking Sat-Nav had increased his sense of direction, and now he was more or less sure of where he was going. Sure enough, Sherlock didn't correct him, and they walked off down the road together.

People passed, chattering on their phones and carrying heavy bags of shopping. They were all so...oblivious. So blind and naive. They didn't know about the murders, about the deaths that were going on behind closed doors. They didn't know who the tall man with the trench was, and they didn't know he had been a lifeless lump of flesh a week ago. They didn't know the soldier walking beside him, metal, sharp and deadly, buried deep into his leg and scraped out with blunt tools. These were the same people that didn't notice the missing Rapunzel, who didn't care about death or life, so long as they weren't locked in the middle of the struggle between them.

John considered this, and found himself thinking they were lucky. They were so fortunate to not have to put with genius-level tantrums and painful legs that spasmed and jerked at odd moments. They were so fortunate not to know the secrets that swamped this dark and dangerous city, the ones that hid in shadows and crept in alleyways, always hiding their ugly scarred faces. They were so fortunate, so blind.

And yet John would never give it up. The battleground was exciting, interesting, and Sherlock, as much he wanted to kill him, was his best friend, his roommate and his colleague. The leg was a wound, yes, but it was one he had sustained honourably, and it reminded him of courage and strength when the world was imploding, crumpling in on itself.

The battlefield was bloody, and the casualties kept rising, but he would rather be a general than a mindless drone below.

"Left."

John's feet, following the sound of Sherlock's voice, carried them into a dark and twisted lane, covered in cobbles and broken bits of glass. The lane curved and folded in on itself, the bright light outside lost in shadows of the towering houses on either side. Sherlock, unaffected, kept walking, his head up, his eyes darting, and his cheekbones rouged by the wind.

"Right."

He turned into a tiny side-street and increased his pace, his long legs sliding over the iced cobbles with ease.

"How much further?" John asked, slipping over a patch of black ice.

"Not much. One left turn and we're there." Flashing a rare smile, Sherlock started walking again, taking a sharp turn down another alley. Then a shaft of light pierced the darkness and the blue sky opened up like a book. John stepped into the light and saw the warehouse. It was a grey with patches of dull red where the metal covering had rusted. It looked a bit evil, but warehouses always did in his opinion. However, there was something wrong.

John watched as Sherlock strode towards it, confident and blissfully unaware that anything was wrong. John stayed rooted to the spot and after a few moments, Sherlock turned around. "Yes?"

"Do you not think..." John paused and wondered how to continue. In his head the problem had seemed so obvious, but now it seemed stupid. "Well, the other places were a bit more...magical. This doesn't look like a fairytale setting."

Sherlock's face was smoothed out, a slate of blank incomprehension. "Your point?"

"Well, you said the killer was methodical. Choosing two beautiful places and then a dark one doesn't seem very methodical..." John trailed off. God, he sounded stupid.

Turning around, Sherlock started walking again. "Crime scenes are never beautiful, John, unless you're me. Now, hurry up."

John sighed and hurried forward. He thought he had something - the place was different somehow, even if he couldn't completely put it into words. It wasn't as magical, as sparkling as the forest and the tower; instead it was dull and dark and menacing. There was something else as well. It didn't seem as...completed. There was something missing. But, Sherlock was the boss and John wasn't in any position to argue. He wasn't letting Sherlock walk in there alone.

Joining Sherlock, John walked towards the warehouse, twisting his path towards the entrance. It was gaping and black, and shivers crawled up John's spine. He longed to stop, to order Sherlock to stay, but he couldn't. Sherlock was the boss. Sherlock was always the boss.

The darkness swallowed them whole as they stepped into the empty metal beast. Nothing. No noise; no light; no scent. Just blandness, darkness, silence. John turned to Sherlock. "Did you bring a-"

There was a sharp pain in his neck and then nothing became everything


	7. Chapter 7

Rope. Handcuffs.

Rope?

A giggling. Who was giggling? He wasn't...was he?

Darkness.

Then pinpricks of light.

A fuzzy mind, blurred. Giggling. He had his eyes closed. Why were his eyes closed?

John eased open his eyes and slammed them shut again. Pain. Lots of pain. Shooting through his head, spears or daggers. Still, the giggling, getting louder.

Rope? Around his wrists. His ankles. He couldn't move. He was locked in position, held to a...a chair? A table? A chair.

Slowly, gingerly, John opened his eyes and watched as the world blurred and spun. A fuzzy mind. Giggling.

Then words - "Sh-Sherly..."

"Sherlock?" Another voice, high pitched and crackling like lightning filled his head. More spears and John winced. "Shush...calm down...deep breaths, little princess, deep breaths...fade to black now...fade to black..."

John let his eyelids droop.

Darkness.

And the giggling.


	8. Chapter 8

P.S. I would like to wish everyone a very happy Christmas! DFTBA ^-^

John opened his eyes and winced at the bright lights surrounding him. He twisted his hands behind them and found that he was bound with rope to a chair, the coarse fibres rubbing his skin raw. He vaguely remembered realising this earlier. He also remembered a giggling and a man.

And Sherlock.

"Sherlock?!" Silence. "Sherlock?" John shuffled the chair round in a circle, searching the warehouse for a sign of life. Nothing. Just stage lights, beaming down on him and the steel rafters above him, the ribs of a giant skeleton. The huge doors were closed behind him. John stared outwards into the warehouse. The light which bathed him stopped a few metres short of the far wall. "Sherlock?"

"He's not awake yet."

John froze and felt someone's hand graze the back of his neck and grasp the wooden back of the chair. "He's still fast asleep, bless him." The chair spun round, and John saw a madman grinning back at him.

There was no other way to describe him. He was skinny and gaunt, with wild black hair and darting eyes. There was a lopsided grin on his face and his cheek was marred with a fresh white scar. The man caught John staring and he giggled. "You like it?"

John said nothing and the man's hand shot out and held his cheeks. "I asked you a question," he growled.

"Yes, very nice," John said as best he could. His heart was pounding in his chest and his leg twinged uneasily. His neck hurt as well, and he wondered what had happened.

The man relaxed his grip on his face and gave him a pat on the cheek with a rough, calloused hand. "Good boy, good boy, I thought it was a pleasant accessory to my face, don't you think? I did it myself, after he told me it would look more menacing...now, how are you feeling?"

John's eyes widened and he looked at the man incredulously. "How am I...Are you freaking serious?"

"Oh, yes. I'm always serious."

"Well, in that case, I'm not good. 1 gold star for you."

The man laughed and held out his hand, as if wanting John to shake it. "I'm The Spider. The Spider at the centre of the web. Get it? I'M IN CONTROL, BUDDY! I'M IN CONTROL!" The man burst into hysterical laughter and John shrunk back in his chair. He was mad. Mental. Crazy as a bag of cats. Sherlock knew what he was talking about when he said the man went insane with grief.

The thought brought John back, and he let out a small, feeble cough. "Where's Sherlock?"

The Spider frowned, his forehead creasing. He was still smiling though, giving a grotesque impression of a clown - sad but grinning. John had never liked clowns. "He's sleeping. I told you, remember?"

"Where is he sleeping?"

"He's over there, but I don't want to start the story to early...no, _he _said that would be a bad idea. A very very bad idea. He said I had to bait you a bit first, ask you things. He's very clever you know, a different clever than I am."

John swallowed. "He? Who's _'he'_?"

The Spider giggled again, the high-pitched laughter bouncing off the walls. "He told me not to tell you. It's more fun that way, he said." The man's chest suddenly puffed up with pride and he smiled. "He said I was inspirational. I gave him an idea for a crime, one he could use later, another fairytale. He was the one that told me about you, Doctor Watson. You and Sherlock. He admires you, I think. A bit. Not much. But a bit. He admires your friend a lot. But he said I could get rid of you for him. I'm doing him a favour."

Licking his thin lips, The Spider stepped backwards. "This is boring. I'm going to start the story now. He said I should wait for a while, but I did my waiting. Twelve years of it, stuck inside my own head, a prison of thoughts and ramblings. I know I'm insane. I know I'm crazy...but it's much more fun than being sane. I can't imagine what it's like in your funny little brains, all linear and rational. It must be so boring. Anyway, I...what's the word? Rigress?"

"Digress."

"Ah, yes, I digress. Make sure you're sitting comfortably..."

The Spider grinned manically and fumbled in his pocket. There was a click, and the section of darkness lit up, showing a single, slumped figure, tied to a chair. John jerked forward. "Sherlock?!"

"Shush, shush..." The Spider laid a finger on his lips and John fell silent. He didn't look armed, but the madness in his eyes scared John more than any weapon. "He's sleeping, sleeping like a baby. Poor lamb, hasn't been getting his rest. A tranquiliser helps. He was harder to hit than you. When he saw you go down, he tried to fight, bucking like a horse. Of course, I got him in the end, but he's a little...damaged."

John looked at Sherlock's prone, dead frame. Shadows curved around his face and swathed his shoulders like a blanket, but John could still see a cut down his cheek, dripping red blood down onto the floor. His lips were bright yellow, glinting in the light.

"What did you do to him?" John's voice was strong, level, but his hands were trembling behind the chair. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, nothing. Well, something, but all in good time. I'm going to untie you know, but you'd better not move, ok? I don't want to kill you before the story starts...it will muck up the ending."

John felt the barrel of a gun press up to his face and he stopped moving, stopped trembling, stopped breathing. The Spider giggled and leaned down on one knee, his black jeans brushing John's leg. How was he going to untie him, if one hand was busy?

The answer came quickly - there was a scrape of teeth against his wrists and without thinking, John writhed.

The Spider didn't say anything, just buried the gun deeper into John's temple and continued cutting the rope with his teeth. After what seemed like eternity, the coarse rope fell away from his wrists and then, after another eternity, his ankles, and The Spider stood up, not moving the weapon cocked in his hand. "When I say so, you're going to stand up. Three, two , one."

John stood up slowly, his heart hammering in his chest. "Good, good," The Spider cooed. "Together, we're going to walk towards your friend, and I'll tell you a story as we go, ok? Listen, though...YOU HAVE TO LISTEN!" The sudden screaming burned John's ears and The Spider erupted into hysterical laughter again. His breath smelled of burnt hair and sulphur. "Ok, ok, nice and slow, nice and slow..."

With a juddering breath, John stepped forward, feeling The Spider move with him, like they were a single entity, connected by the ebony barrel of the gun. They walked a few steps and then The Spider started talking again. "I think you know of The Frog Prince?"

John gave a tiny nod. If he opened his mouth he would scream or shout or swear.

"Good, good. Then you know about the golden ball, and the frog being a prince and then her kissing the prince etc..."

John nodded again.

"Well, that cuts down my speech. You see, Doctor Watson, I've been planning my revenge for a while now. Sherlock figured that out. Rapunzel locked away for six months and little Snow - I had my eye on her for a while. I knew their habits and their vices and I used my knowledge to catch them, to snare them like rabbits. But what for the finale? I needed something big and great for the finale...When I first started planning my revenge - revenge, you see, for my daughter. She died when she was young, so very young. They told me it was drugs, but they were lying. My Belle wouldn't do that, never would do that. But I digress...again. Anyway, he found me, and he helped me with the logistics and stuff. He was the one that told me about you, John. He gave me the idea...Oh, you're going to like it. YOU'RE GOING TO LOVE THIS!"

John kept walking, slow, painful steps as his pulse throbbed under his temple. Could he duck and run? No. The Spider would get him, and his leg, his damn leg...He couldn't lash out, The Spider's finger was on the trigger, holding it, stroking it, teasing it. He was trapped, a rabbit in a snare, just like the girls.

"Have you guessed yet? No? Let me explain. I've been watching Sherlock for a while and I've seen how he can change - from dead to alive in seconds. He changes shape...so he's the frog. The Prince in disguise. You, well, you sit and sit and sit and read and wonder, but you haven't acted on instinct for a while. You're locked in a tower of your own making, Doctor Watson. So, you're the Princess, with a little crown on your blond haired head. Have you guessed?"

"No."

The Spider giggled and eased John forward. They were only a few metres from Sherlock now, and his injuries were obvious. As well as the gash on his cheek, there were scrapes on his knuckles and bruises on his forehead. And his lips - they shone like stars, bright and glittering.

"Do you want me to tell you?"

John said nothing.

"To wake up your frog and to change him to a prince, you have to kiss him, just like in the fairytale. I know you're not G-A-Y, John, but I have poetic licence on my side, don't I? Yes, yes, yes, I do. Except, there's a catch. My own special cocktail is on his lips...I'm a bit a chemist and that stuff, that yellowy stuff on his lips, is a very nice, very dangerous poison. It will sink into Sherlock's skin eventually, and kill him. Gruesomely. It reacts slowly with Sherlock's salvia but with yours it will react violently, killing you very quickly indeed. You see? DO YOU SEE? Only one of you can live! It's a great story, and you get to decide the ending, John. It's all up to you. Do you save yourself, or do you save the genius? In other words...do you choose the head or the heart?"

The Spider giggled and bounced on his toes, excitement radiating from his body and his eyes twinkling, burning with energy. "It's a great idea, don't you think? I came up with it myself, with only a teeny bit of help from him. You get to choose, Doctor Watson." Grinning, The Spider stepped backwards, taking the gun off John's head. John felt this knees buckle with relief and his struggled to keep himself upright. The gun was still pointing at him, the trigger still halfway between life and death. "On you go, Doctor. On you go, choose now..."

With a fresh outburst of giggles, The Spider started to sing:

_"The time has come, the spider said, to talk and see who cares_

_The heads or hearts, the psychopaths_

_ Or the girl with golden hair..._

_The man with a crown, or the frog with a mind;_

_Which one will Dame John spare?_

Finishing his song, The Spider laughed and jerked the gun towards John's face. "On you go, John. Choose! CHOOSE!" The last word was bellowed and John took a small step forward. "You have one minute, Doctor Watson, one minute before the poison starts to work and the tranquiliser wears off. Tick tock, tick tock..."

John held his breath, trembling and shaking. His mind was a storm cloud, raging and sparking and blocking his thoughts. He had to choose. But did he save himself, or Sherlock? He wanted to live, but he didn't want Sherlock to die. He wanted them both to live. But then again...

The world would never have another genius. They would never have a tall man in a trench coat stalking the streets, solving the crimes the police didn't touch. They would never have a saviour like him, not in a million years. But he was replaceable. He was disposable - Sherlock had made that clear with his snide comments. There were a thousand others like him, limping soldiers with trust issues and loyalties to mad, clever men. There was only one Sherlock.

"Tick tock, time's running out! Ten, nine, eight, seven, six-"

With sweating palms and shaking legs, John leaned forward and let his lips brush Sherlock's. _I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry._

At first, there was nothing, but then the burning started.

"Woop, wowee!" The Spider shouted as John fell to his knees, every nerve in his body screaming in agony. An inhuman sound was ripping the air, and it took a second for John to realise it was him. It was a wolf howling, a dog yelping, a cat hissing, all forced into one animalistic cry. The pain worsened as the poison spread through his veins, searing and sizzling every part of him and John screamed louder. The Spider's cheers of triumph faded, and the edges of his vision turned black. In front of him, there was movement, someone waking up and struggling against bonds, but he didn't notice. The poison was unfolding him and crumpling him, dipping him into acid and dissolving him. He felt the cold ground beneath his cheek and sharp nails raking his arms. His nails.

"I told you it reacted quickly...I told you, I told you!"

"John! JOHN!"

John lifted his head an inch off the ground, his teeth drawing blood as he bit his tongue. He wanted the burning to stop, anything to stop the burning. "JOHN!" Sherlock was staring at him, pleading silently with him. _I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so so sorry..._

Another burst of pain.

Another cheer.

Another shout.

And then a gun shot.

The noise was distant and quiet, but John could still hear it through his howls of pain. There was a thump as a body hit the ground. _Sherlock? _ A hand touched his and there was a pinch in his neck, tiny, barely noticeable. He was still burning, sizzling, cooking, all of his veins on fire and his heart about to be engulfed by flames. He wanted to the pain to stop so badly...death, unconsciousness, anything, anything to stop the agony. Please, please, please...

A final piercing cry and everything turned black.


	9. Chapter 9

John watched as Sherlock paced, his face pale and gaunt in the light. He moved like a ghost, his long legs gliding over the pavement. The blood was dried on his face and his wrists were covered in red welts and bruises. For a moment, he looked straight at John, but he didn't see him. Instead, he kept walking, head down, eyes lowered. Everyone walked past John now, not noticing his existence.

"Is he still ignoring you?"

John twisted his head and saw Lestrade, his speckled hair glinting in the fading light. It had been a few hours since the ordeal in the warehouse, and now, the sun was low in the sky, casting a hazy glow over the street and dark frosty pavement.

Lestrade sat down on the edge of the ambulance next to John, pushing the edge of his orange blanket to the side. John was clothed in jackets, hats, scarves, gloves, blankets and throws, but it didn't matter. He was still shaking, constantly shaking. "So? Has he said anything to you?"

John shook his head. "No. Still pretending I don't exist." He sighed and tugged the blanket closer to his chest in a vain attempt to stop the shivering. The doctors had said it was a side-effect of the poison, but John had been in enough battles to know what this was - PTSD. It would go away eventually, when the memory, the freshness started to fade, but until, then he was stuck being terrified.

"He's just in shock. He'll get over it eventually." Lestrade dug his fingers into a pocket and pulled out a cigarette. "You want one?"

"I-I don't smoke."

"Neither do I, but it's been a hell of a week."

Clicking a lighter, Lestrade let the tip of cigarette glow and then he put it in his mouth, blowing the smoke in a ring. John stared at the warehouse. It was swarming with people - John had seen Anderson and Donovan amongst the constant trickle of detectives and policemen and doctors - and now it was silhouetted in the light. It was menacing. Evil-looking.

"Is he still sticking to his story?"

Lestrade nodded and said, "Yup. Not budged. Still says you had taken the poison, he woke up and just as you were dying, a man stormed in and shot Tyler Wilkes. He quickly administered the antidote and then wandered towards Sherlock, laughing. He said something and then, still laughing, left." Lestrade shook his head. "We haven't found any trace of a man, but his story is the most plausible idea we have as to how you survived. How are you feeling? Any side-effects?"

"No," John replied, shuffling his feet and avoiding the gaze of two curious doctors. "What did the man say? The one Sherlock saw?"

Lestrade paused and took a drag from the cigarette. "'I owe you, Sherlock.'"

John looked down at the ground. There was no doubt in his mind that the man had been The Spider's master, pulling the strings of his puppet from above. Why he had decided to reveal himself, John had no idea. Nor did he know why his life, so fragile, so close to falling into the thin veil, had been saved.

"Anyway, I'd better be off - the rookies are no doubt messing up the crime scene. I'll let you have a night's rest before I get a witness statement, ok?" Lestrade dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his shoe. "Take it easy...and look after him, John. I think this has affected him."

"Yeah. Yeah. Ok. Thanks."

Lestrade strode back towards the warehouse, vanishing into the throng of people. John hugged the blanket closer to his chest and waited. For what, he didn't know. For the end, for the night, for the shaking to stop. His eyes strayed to the side and he saw Sherlock standing against a wall, back to the warehouse, his long coat swept upwards by a cold wind.

He was just another man. Another corpse.

If only the dead could be woken with a kiss - woken and made to dance.


End file.
